


how to be brave

by threadoflife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Healing, Implied/Referenced Violence, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Season/Series 04, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 09:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10409043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: Sometimes, Sherlock flinched in reaction to John. It was not something John took lightly.His therapist said he came to see truths about himself he'd hidden from before; that he needed to be kind and patient with himself. What a load of bollocks, John thought.He certainly didn't deserve kindness.Sherlock was of another opinion.





	

**Author's Note:**

> http://wssh-watson.tumblr.com/post/158709678192/tw-violence-tw-mental-health-issues-when
> 
> Quick scribbling here... please heed the tags

When Sherlock flinched the first time John got louder and banged his fist on the table, John’s instinctual reaction had been to snarl, “Stop it, stop acting as if I–”

Sherlock had not stopped, but John had: the impulsive denial had given way to a hot, forceful wave of shame that had pulled him under. _Stop acting as if I’ve beaten you. Because I have._

He had swallowed the shame, fled the scene, and refused to meet Sherlock’s eye for over two weeks, giving only stilted answers and spending as much free time outside of Sherlock’s presence as possible.

He had avoided the mirror.

His therapist told him he was in the stage of facing truths about himself, which was of course bound to be hard. He should be kinder to himself, more patient.

 _Kinder,_ John thought to himself at night when the thoughts wouldn’t stop. _I punched him and beat him bloody when he was on the floor. I don’t fucking deserve kindness._

Sherlock’s flinching didn’t stop. It happened over dinner when John let the spoon drop; on a case, when John held Sherlock too tightly because Sherlock was about to do something stupid; coming home from work when John slammed the door shut, frustrated with the world.

John’s protestations that Sherlock should stop ceased; he no longer experienced denial, only the awful dread and shame. He took it in, swallowed, breathed through it. Most of the time that was enough. Other times, it caught up with him in bed late at night, and he had to bite into the pillow to muffle his sobbing.

Other times, it was not enough.

They were making dinner. John had a bowl in hand in which he was beating eggs while Sherlock prepared the salad. Stupidly, John stubbed his toe against the table leg, and the shock of it caused his hands to spasm–letting the bowl drop with a spectacular crash to the floor.

John’s head whipped up just in time to catch Sherlock’s violent flinch, as if John had–

Fuck. Christ.

John stared at Sherlock for another moment–who was already turning around, not two seconds later, saying, “John, don’t”–before he turned on his heel and locked himself in the bathroom.

The static in his ears and the irregular thumping of his heart were louder than the rush of the water from the shower above. His clothes were soaked, and even through them his skin boiled: the water was much too hot.

It was a welcome punishment. They didn’t need a second broken mirror.

He wanted to burn. He wanted to burn right out of his skin, out of his body, leave it all behind. He wanted to hurt. He wanted the pain. He deserved it. He fucking deserved it, none of that kindness patience mindfulness bullshit his therapist tried to sell him which didn’t work anyway because he was so bad and he deserved this deserved to bleed to hurt to cry to suffer he was so so bad–

Then, suddenly, a shock of movement from behind: a tightness around his body: fingers around his fists. (Fists? When had he–)

“John,” Sherlock said, and his voice was clear. Why was it clear? Where was the water? “John, I’m here. You don’t need to do this.”

“I–I need to,” John gritted out from between chattering teeth. Chattering, why chattering?, the water had been hot. “I deserve this, let me–”

“No,” Sherlock said sharply, lowly, and his arms tightened more around John, restricting his movement. “Indulging in self-destructive urges is regression. You don’t deserve this. You don’t have to do any of this.”

“You don’t understand,” John said feebly, and God he loathed himself, reduced to weakly thrashing in Sherlock’s arms, as if he couldn’t just throw him to the ground and–

He could. He _had_.

“No. No,” John moaned, and the renewed surge of self-loathing and shame choked him, sitting thickly in his throat. “Let me, I need to–”

“You need to be kind to yourself, John,” Sherlock said, and he sounded like a fucking textbook, like John’s fucking therapist, why couldn’t anyone see that kindness wasn’t for John, that he didn’t deserve it, that he–

A sharp pain in his left hand: he had freed himself from Sherlock and rammed the fist of it right into the wall. It made him shudder, the momentary relief of it sweet, while Sherlock–

While at his back, Sherlock flinched.

Feverishly, John, laughing, managed, “D'you see now why I can’t–”

Again, Sherlock’s hands at his elbows. With surprising strength, Sherlock forced him around, and there he was–John could hardly look at him but Sherlock had always commanded John’s every sense to focus on him–there he was standing like a wet dog with his hair plastered to his forehead and neck and his wet clothes, glaring down at John so fiercely something inside John went still.

“Stop it,” Sherlock hissed. “Stop telling me what to do. Stop telling yourself what to do and for once, John, for God’s sake, let yourself be!”

They both breathed hard, sharing the same breath in the hot space between their mouths. A moment later, Sherlock repeated, softer, “Let yourself be.”

John had no breath anymore. All the fight went out of him with Sherlock so forceful, so present right in front of him, touching John even after he had flinched.

The hardness inside him crumbled–

“And please,” Sherlock said in a much smaller, fragile voice now that John was listening to him, “please don’t lock yourself away again.”

–and went completely soft.

“Let me in,” Sherlock murmured, and his eyes were wet, not from the shower. He brought two tentative hands to John’s face, cupped it gently, slowly. “Let me in, John.”

And John learned that his fists on Sherlock need not be violent or angry: they could be vulnerable, seeking, and helpless, for they found themselves in his shirt, against his chest, holding on so tightly as if letting go meant disintegrating; he learned that he could touch in love, too.

John let go.

Maybe, in time, he would learn to stop speaking with his fists, his body, with violence; maybe he would learn to verbalise all this with his mouth.

Here, with Sherlock wrapped around him and John’s begging fists tight in his shirt, it felt absolutely possible.


End file.
